Liberties of the Press
by Mariam Shabti
Summary: When John allows BBC 1 to produce a programme based off his blog, things get a little out of hand. In which Sherlock is insulted, Molly is amused, and John continues to insist that he is 'not gay.'
1. Chapter 1

It was a text that started it. A text in the wee hours of the morning when Sherlock was, for once, sleeping. He grunted and slid his hand out from under the warm covers to grope blindly on the bedside table. He managed to knock his mobile off onto the floor, where it lay with the blindlingly bright screen glaring up into his face. It vibrated once more for good measure before he grabbed it and squinted at the digital lettering.

Why was Molly Hooper texting him in the middle of the night? She had his number, yes, and used it periodically for informing him on experiments he was conducting in the mortuary – but as far as he knew, the last time he'd required her to perform an experiment checkup for him was last week. Mr. Holbruk's intestines had been a lovely shade of maroon by the time Sherlock and Molly had finished with him.

He grinned sleepily at the memory and opened the text.

**You've got to see this. -MH**

He got slightly excited. What particularly gruesome cadaver did Molly currently possess that required such urgent diagnosis? His fingers scrabbled at the screen of his mobile.

**Please be specific. You have my undivided attention. -SH**

A heartbeat later it vibrated in his hand.

**They've made...a bit of crap telly based off of John's blog. It's interesting. -MH**

He visibly drooped.

**I admit at being rather let down. The nature and early arrival of your message led me to believe that you had something of worth to communicate. -SH**

He slung his body back on its side and pouted at the opposite wall for a moment or two. He was almost asleep again when his mobile lit up.

**This is definitely worth communicating. Turn on BBC 1. -MH**

Sherlock groaned and flopped off the side of his bed.

* * *

John found him the next morning. He was curled on the sofa, still staring at the telly with a haunted look in his eyes. The telly had been turned off, but the remote lay conspicuously on the floor beside Sherlock's outstretched hand.

"Well then," John muttered. "Watch something you regret?"

When the detective spoke, it was with the voice of a man who had been deeply traumatised. "Yes."

John shuffled to his armchair and dropped in it with a contented sigh. "Spill."

In response, Sherlock rose and fetched John's laptop. John rolled his eyes at the ease at which Sherlock hacked in – he'd replaced the password and everything, but _no_, there was no deterring him, was there? – opened something on YouTube, and placed the device in John's lap as the video began to play.

Sherlock then slowly returned to his fetal position on the couch, staring at John as the doctor watched the first installment of the programme Molly had discovered. They both were completely still for the duration of ninety minutes, until the disgustingly dramatic end credit music began rolling. Then John closed the laptop with a quick, instinctive motion, as if it were a volatile trap that needed disarming.

He looked at Sherlock, sharing the haunted expression now. "And that is what the BBC has done with the inspiration from my blog?"

"Did you give them permission?" Sherlock spat.

"Well, yes, but it wasn't supposed to air for – "

Sherlock surged to his feet. "That was the most asinine, despicable, _inaccurate_ representation of any work I've done to date! And that _includes_ Kitty Riley's description of my career!"

"And apparently we're both gay."

"Of _course_ I knew which pill it was!" Sherlock continued, for all intents and purposes deaf to John's comments. "And they portray me as an arrogant clotpole who doesn't understand sarcasm or innuendo and apparently cannot function without somebody to bounce ideas off of."

John snorted. "They got that bit right at least."

"The actor they chose looks _nothing_ like me – "

"_Exactly_ like you..."

" – he cannot deliver a good deduction without waving his hands around like an idiot, he completely neglected to portray my charisma and good people-skills – in fact he couldn't have done a better job if he had _intended_to make me look like an unfeeling statue – and the way he sweeps around in that coat! I wear it better."'

John was trying his very best not to laugh, but ended up painfully worrying his thumb knuckle with his teeth and sniggering at the back of his nose.

Sherlock looked at him sharply. "And _you_! They made you look like some sort of cuddly, emotionally scarred sob-bucket that likes to look deeply into my eyes at inopportune times!"

This time John let loose a laugh that sounded more like a bark. "What, are you saying that there is an _opportune_ time for that?"

"Of course not, " Sherlock dismissed him with a twitch of his hand. "Lestrade and Anderson were depicted accurately enough – their incompetence and stupidity well portrayed – and the woman who played the part of Donovan was, I admit, spot on. The cabby was badly done, however. I believe the writers wanted us, as the viewers, to sympathise with him slightly and feel revulsion when I employed unorthodox measures of data extraction."

"'Torture' would be a better word for it," John muttered.

"They felt the need to dramatise simple facts, also. I simply saw the data and made it clear to those who are incompetent or ignorant enough to not pay attention."

"You forget that you twirl around excitedly while 'explaining' the data," John snorted.

Sherlock sighed and looked up at the ceiling. John thought for a moment that he was expressing disdain in response to John's comment, but then he started up again in that rapid-fire way of his.

"There's one more thing I'm forgetting..." he mused. "One more discrepancy. Something to do with the riding crop..."

John rolled his eyes. "Are you talking about the stupid corpse-arse-whipping scene? The one with Molls?"

Sherlock whipped around, eyes and mouth wide. "Yes. Molly Hooper. That's what they got wrong."

Then, before John could react, the detective had dashed across the room and locked himself in his bedroom with his mobile phone.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Wow! Thanks for all the favourites and follows, guys! I've never had a story take off so fast before. You really made my day! So here, have anozzer chapter. *blush*_

* * *

Molly Hooper: Messages

**I've seen the monstrosity that is the programme they've called 'Sherlock.' I suppose you think I should be flattered? -SH**

**I thought it was rather good. The actor who plays you is really spot on. -MH**

**I'm going to pretend you didn't say that. -SH**

**Why? He was brilliant. I thought you would be impressed. -MH**

**I am never impressed. -SH**

**Hmmm. True. What did you think of the case? I liked that they called it a Study in Pink instead of a Study in Scarlet, just to shake things up a bit. -MH**

**It was disgustingly portrayed. They made it out to be more dramatic than it had any need to be. The events weren't nearly as dire or confusing as they depicted. And that actor that played John limped much more than necessary. -SH**

**Sherlock, that cabby nearly killed you. And John's limp **_**was**_**pretty horrible before you snapped him out of it. -MH**

**I was never in any danger! I knew exactly which pill it was! And John was fine, honestly. -SH**

**I suppose it's no use arguing with you. -MH**

**None whatsoever. -SH**

**Did you like that scene with the old man and the riding crop? Where I asked you for coffee and wore that awful lipstick? -MH**

**I hated it. That actress simpered and stuttered in a ridiculous fashion that was entirely untrue to your character. And you've always had better taste in clothes than the average seven year old. -SH**

**I'll take that as a compliment. But to be completely fair, I used to be very shy around you. I think she did a pretty good job. ****_Your_**** actor was stellar in that scene, actually. I'm pretty sure you had no idea at the time that I was asking you out. -MH**

**You were asking me out? -SH**

**See what I mean? That Bennydoodle Crumpetface is quite good. He's got your character down pat. -MH**

Sherlock was sitting on the carpet beside his bed when this last text arrived. He ground the mobile furiously on the floor for a minute or two until he'd worked off his irritation. Then he calmly sent a reply.

**Benedict Cumberbatch is a git and I refuse to allow you to speak of him in such an endearing fashion. I would rather you didn't add him to your list of actor-crushes. It's bad enough that you are enamoured by that Martin Freeman bloke. -SH**

**But he made such a cute little Hobbit! And I can't wait for the Desolation of Smaug – Briddlefiddy Cooberdoo's glorious voice coming out of that dragon will be so brilliant. -MH**

**Cute Hobbit, yes – "cute" Watson? No. I refuse for John's expertise to be ignored and for the focus to be on his stupid sweaters and funny nose. -SH**

He paused. He rubbed his mouth and sent another text after the first.

**You think that Cumber-bloke has a glorious voice? -SH**

**Yes. Like yours. -MH**

Sherlock blinked, then smirked. **Oh, really? -SH**

**Mmmm. But don't gloat. It's not attractive. -MH**

**Watch the second episode with me tonight? -SH**

There was a longer-than-usual pause between texts, but then –

**Yes please. -MH**


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Sorry, that last chapter was kind of a boring filler. I've written a bit of meaty stuff here to make it up to you. And the story Molly mentions in this chapter is a hysterical one, written by _**mircosedy **_here on called 'Grocery Shopping.' I highly recommend it. _:D

* * *

Sherlock didn't bother to change out of his pyjamas at all. John noted this and rolled his eyes, but otherwise did not react. Such things weren't unusual in 221B.

The two of them spent most of the day in silence – John worked on a blog post about the importance Mr Holbruk's maroon intestines had on one of their recent cases, while Sherlock conducted an experiment concerning the effect of hydrochloric acid erosion on bone matter. There was one thing at the back of both of their minds, but they didn't dare talk about it. John didn't want Sherlock to explode over it again, and Sherlock felt the waves of tension rolling off of John but tried to ignore them.

As a result, the air in the flat was nearly vibrating with all of the unsaid thoughts.

Then Molly let herself into the flat with a cheerful, "Hello!" and the atmosphere recovered. She was wearing a bright pair of red flannel pyjamas – even though it was only four in the afternoon – and her large canvas satchel was slung over her shoulder, where her work clothes were obviously stashed.

"Molly!" Sherlock and John called in unison, both sounding relieved. Sherlock swooped down on her and greeted her with a hearty peck on the cheek. Molly's face flushed with pleasure and she slipped off her shoes next to the door in a slightly awkward fashion.

"See, I thought you'd be dressed like that," she said, gesturing at Sherlock's attire, "so I prepared myself accordingly."

Sherlock beamed. "You look lovely. Simply scrumptious. I look forward to using you as a teddy bear during the length of this odious show."

"Glad to be of service."

Oh, stop flirting you two," John chided good-naturedly, kissing Molly's other cheek. He didn't want to risk encountering the aftereffects of Sherlock's loud, wet-sounding smooch.

Sherlock ignored him. "Molly, did you bring crap-telly-food?"

"Of _course_! I don't want to be faced with eating another one of your failed treacle tart attempts. No, don't look at me like that, Sherlock! Being a chemistry major in uni does not necessarily make you capable of creating anything edible."

Sherlock whined slightly, but quickly got over it after he'd succeeded in freeing Molly from her satchel. He carried it into the kitchen, from which the sounds of rummaging soon came.

John rolled his eyes for Molly's benefit, who giggled. "So," he said brightly, "when did you discover that BBC had done this horrendous thing?"

She grinned widely. "Last night after getting home from Bart's. Watched the entire thing in one go on Netflix, then found it on the telly. From what I've heard, Sherlock hates it."

"I HEARD THAT," Sherlock bellowed.

"I know!" Molly screeched. "It's okay for you to hate it, honestly!"

There was a pause. Then – "WHY HAVE YOU BROUGHT ME NUTELLA? I DON'T EVEN LIKE NUTELLA."

"I didn't bring it for you!"

John had a sort of slap-happy look on his face. "You brought me Nutella?"

Molly hugged him and then turned to plop on the sofa. "Loads."

"MOLLY, THERE ISN'T ANY ARTICHOKE DIP. HOW CAN I EAT MY CRISPS WITHOUT ARTICHOKE DIP?"

"I brought you some yesterday! And you really should do your own shopping, you know."

"IT'S GONE. I ATE IT."

"And honestly," John said, "I can't get him to do a thing. He still won't pick up milk, ever."

Molly suddenly began to laugh hysterically. John sat there for a moment or two, feeling very confused, until she'd calmed down.

"Sorry," she gasped, "there's this thing called FanFiction I've discovered recently. There's a hysterically funny one about you and Sherlock...where Sherlock _actually_ goes shopping."

Sherlock's head appeared around the kitchen doorframe. "FanFiction? What's that? Not some asinine concoction of a teenaged, female mind, I hope. Although it sounds likely, judging from the niche-y sound of the name."

"Yes," Molly giggled. "It's a site where fans of different shows can upload the things they've written. The stories are all based on the characters from their favourite media. There are actually quite a few involving the _Sherlock_ programme already."

Sherlock's head cocked to the side, his eyes shining with interest. "Really? Are they any good?"

"Maybe you should read them for yourself, before the _Blind_ _Banker_ comes on in a few hours. Though..." Molly took a deep breath and glanced apologetically at John. "A few of them are quite graphic."

John scoffed. "And you've read these?"

"Inadvertently," Molly said, obviously uncomfortable. "Most of them involve...erm..."

"Molly, tell us," Sherlock snapped impatiently.

"Well, _Johnlock_," she hissed.

John blinked. "What?"

Molly rose with a heavy sigh. "I guess I'll have to show you. Just don't say I didn't warn you..."


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: I'm baaaaaack!_

_Had to buy a new laptop – my old one crashed and I lost all my stories. I even lost all my Sherlock/Cumberbatch/Freeman pictures! AND THEY WERE SO BEAUTIFUL TOO! *gross sobbing* But, I digress. To make a long story short, sorry it took so long for me to update. I was suffering from extenuating circumstances. Let's just hope I can remember what I had written for this chapter. I have a feeling it was funny..._

* * *

Molly set John's laptop in Sherlock's lap. "See? Try...this one. _Alone on the Water _should be a good place to start."

John sat beside Sherlock on the sofa and read over his shoulder, but soon gave up because Sherlock was scrolling down much too fast for him to follow. "Don't tell me you're reading _that_ quickly. You're skimming. Cheater."

"No, m'not. Shut up."

John rubbed his lips together. "Mmm, right. Can't disturb the _romantic_ _ambiance_."

Sherlock's nose wrinkled, but he otherwise showed no sign of having heard him. "Apparently I'm dying in this one."

Molly wiped her nose. "It's really good. Just wait until you get to the end."

"What am I doing pinching John's jumper?" Sherlock's lip curled, eyes moving rapidly. "Oh."

"Are you there?" Molly's voice was tremulous.

"If you're referring to the blatant romanticising of euthanasia, than yes. This is overdramatic, and..." Suddenly, he stiffened. "_John_."

"What?" John leaned in and squinted at the screen.

"Anderson is being kind to me...by being rude."

"_What?" _John's eyes scanned the bit Sherlock was pointing at, mouth slowly opening in realisation. "That's actually in character, for him. That's well done, that."

"That's exactly what he would do," Molly sniffled.

Sherlock's back was very straight, obviously ill at ease, though his face was a perfect blank. "I don't like this at all. It's...insipid."

"Accurate," John said at the same time.

"Sad," Molly chimed in.

There was silence as Sherlock continued to read, but it was abruptly shattered when the detective slammed the laptop shut in sudden disgust. But his eyes were agonisingly sad in the split instant before he managed to smooth it over with an affected sneer.

"What?" John and Molly said in unison.

Sherlock's face was a mask of grotesque revulsion. "There was kissing at the end. And crying. John, don't _ever_ cry when I die. I suspect it would be quite repellent."

There was an awkward shuffling of feet and pillows on the sofa as John shifted uncomfortably. Molly shot him a look of sympathy.

"I didn't cry when you died," John said quietly.

Sherlock frowned.

The army doctor took in a deep, shuddering breath. "When I thought you'd committed suicide, I didn't cry. I was just frozen. Stiff. I suspect it'll be the same when...when it's real."

John rubbed his chin and fell silent.

Sherlock's brow furrowed further, and his mouth opened to reply, but Molly cut him off with an overly cheery, "You know what you need to read now, to lighten things up a bit? _Flowers in a Box_."

* * *

_A/N: Sorry it's so short, ladies and/or gents. I've been suffering a bit from writer's block for the past couple of days, and this was the best I could muster. Let's see if I can rustle up some hilarity next, huh?_

_Thanks to everyone who's reviewed, followed, favourited, and generally have just been amazing! You really keep me motivated and remind me how much I love to write. Til next chapter!_


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